


Three Bouquets it Is

by infinitely1895



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nervous Sherlock, Not s4 canon compliant, Post S4, The baby never existed, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 05:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13583712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitely1895/pseuds/infinitely1895
Summary: On John and Sherlock's first Valentine's Day together as a couple, Sherlock really wants to make sure he covers all the bases, romantically speaking.





	Three Bouquets it Is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



John Watson is scurrying along Baker Street in the height of the evening hustle and bustle. His cellphone is pressed against his ear as his boyfriend of ten months reprimands him to the high heavens for having the audacity to run a few minutes behind schedule. 

“It is five twenty-five, John. You were meant to be back back by five.” 

John glances at his wristwatch, sighing heavily. “Yes, tell that to the influenza-ridden patient who kept blathering on about vaccinations ten minutes past closing time.” 

“It would be my pleasure,” Sherlock responds, missing the sarcasm. “Seeing as I require your assistance with an experiment tonight, and you are now twenty-six minutes later than anticipated.”

John’s mind reels at the possible implications of Sherlock requiring assistance. Usually, Sherlock’s idea of in-home experimentation do not bode well for the state of their flat, nor John’s peace of mind. 

He quickens his pace nonetheless. “I’ll be home soon, Sherlock,” he promises. “Why don’t you order our dinner in? I’ll be there in a tick.”

Sherlock murmurs a quick assent and disconnects the call. John stows his phone in his jacket pocket, unable to help the flicker of disappointment at the realization that Sherlock has truly forgotten Valentine's Day altogether. He had expected this, but as it would be their first Valentine's Day as a couple, he had held out a glimmer of hope that Sherlock might wish to celebrate. 

Sherlock Holmes has never struck him as the type of man who would enjoy a commercial holiday dedicated to sentiment. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t even mentioned Valentine's Day to John. On the one occasion that John had attempted to breach the subject and get a sense of his interest in the holiday, Sherlock hadn’t bothered to look up from his microscope. John figures they will order in Chinese and watch bad telly, exchange gifts that won’t mean nearly as much as simply being in each other’s company after all these years. 

So when John enters their kitchen at 221B and finds himself smack dab in the centre of what looks like a Valentine's Day pop-up shop, it is fair to say he is genuinely baffled. The lights in the flat have all been dimmed- a detail John had missed out on when he first breezed into the flat.

Sherlock himself stands at the foot of the kitchen table, dressed in his best suit with his hands folded neatly behind his back. John is convinced he has done something special to make those curls stand out perfectly against his forehead. He has obviously gone to great lengths to make himself presentable tonight- as if John doesn’t find him absolutely irresistible when he’s just rolled out of bed and bleary-eyed with sleep. 

John takes a cautious step into the dimly-lit kitchen, tilting his head, puzzled. “Er…” He drops his jacket on the back of a nearby chair, uncertain. “Have I stumbled into the wrong flat, then?” 

Sherlock’s bow-mouth curves into the smallest of smiles, but he remains silent. 

John’s eyes scan the kitchen table. All of the lab equipment has been cleared out for the evening, tucked away for safekeeping. It looks as though Sherlock has actually wiped the countertops down, so John assumes that beneath the red tablecloth that they hadn’t owned this morning, their table may actually be sanitary for the first time in its existence. 

An assortment of gifts are stacked on either end of the table- three different bouquets of flowers in makeshift vases, two separate envelopes with his name scrawled across the front in Sherlock’s frustratingly perfect cursive, enough boxes of chocolates and sweets to cause a bout of diabetes. Laughably perched upon the nearest kitchen chair is an obnoxiously oversized stuffed bear- brown, clutching a pink plush heart. It all looks ridiculously out of place in 221B, and yet John simply adores the effort it must’ve taken Sherlock to throw it all together. 

John can only shake his head in amazed disbelief as he circles around for a better look, awed. “Sherlock, you mad nutter.” 

Sherlock shifts from foot to foot. “Is it too much?” he asks uncertainly. 

John eyes the cutlery that Sherlock has so carefully set out, the bottle of John’s favourite wine perched between their two best wine glasses, the tall red candle that flickers between the two table settings. Candles: the hallmark of a proper date, in Sherlock’s books. 

“ _Too much?_ ” It feels as though all the air has been knocked from him, like he’s forgotten how to formulate a sentence. “Sherlock, what is all this?” 

Sherlock clears his throat. “It’s Valentine's Day. I do hope I got it right. I haven’t any past experience on… on being someone’s Valentine.” 

John grins. He moves towards the table, working the lid off the nearest box of chocolates and popping one into his mouth. Caramel. “Never? Not even, you know, like a second grade Valentine?” 

Sherlock scowls, coming back into his usual self. “Why on earth would I have wanted any of those horrid creatures for a Valentine? The boy next to me still ate paste in the second grade, John.” 

“Not exactly soulmate material, that.” John laughs heartily at the mental image of a seven year old Sherlock Holmes- a head full of curls and brilliant ideas, frowning in distaste at the fellow classmates he no doubt would’ve labelled idiotic. “So I’m your very first Valentine, huh?” 

The beginnings of a blush work onto Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Indeed,” he confirms, and while he tries to pass it off as insignificant, John knows him well enough to know that it actually means a great deal more than he would ever admit. 

Wanting to relieve some of Sherlock’s tension, John reaches for another chocolate from the box and holds his hand out, brandishing the treat as though it were a precious gemstone. Stretching upwards, he brushes a quick kiss against Sherlock's lips, grinning like an idiot.

“I wish you the happiest Valentine's Day then, love.” 

Sherlock accepts the offering, popping the chocolate into his mouth obligingly. “And to you,” he counters. 

“Now, how about you walk me through what you’ve put together here, then?” John prompts happily. “I’ve just discovered that I’m the first man to experience a Valentine's Day with Sherlock Holmes; I want the full package.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightens. “You will be the first and _only_ man to ever experience Valentine’s Day with me,” he says quietly, and John swears he can feel his knees start to give out before Sherlock is grasping him gently by the elbow and steering him towards the far end of the table. 

“Naturally, I did some research about Valentine’s Day, and all of those ridiculous websites seemed to say much the same thing. Valentine’s Day is a very commercialized holiday, John, did you know?”

John holds back a giggle at Sherlock’s naivety. “Yes, I’ve come to realize that over the years.”

“There are some conflicting accounts, but St. Valentine was thought to be a Roman priest, roughly in the third century AD,” Sherlock explains, his voice taking on a very serious tone all of a sudden. It takes all of John’s self-control not to burst into laughter; leave it to Sherlock Holmes to turn the most romantic night of the year into a history lesson. 

“An Emperor at the time, Claudius the Second, had taken it upon himself to ban marriage. He thought that marriage would make for poor soldiers, although I fail to see the correlation between the two. _You’ve_ been married, and you are the most fantastic soldier I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

John raises his eyebrows at this, scratching the back of his neck absently. “Er, cheers. But did any of those websites happen to point out that it’s generally not on to bring up your date’s ex-wife during the Valentine’s festivities?”

Sherlock scowls at John as though he’s completely overlooked the point, as usual. “You are completely overlooking the point, as usual.”

Bingo.

“Excellent, so this history lesson does have a point then,” John says, amused despite his best efforts to remain stoic; Sherlock is absolutely adorable when he be gets off on a tangent. This morning, he had thought that Sherlock Holmes had never given a moment of thought to Valentine’s Day in his life; in reality, he had taken it upon himself to educate his mind on every fact regarding the matter. Leave it to Sherlock to be painstakingly and adorably thorough when it came to a holiday in which John could be his main focus. 

“Of course it has a point.” Sherlock confirms. “St. Valentine did not agree with the Emperor’s ruling, and so he would arrange to perform wedding ceremonies in secret for couples who wished to be married.”

John processes this information, his face softening into a reluctant smile. He reaches out and slips his fingers through Sherlock’s, joining their hands together. 

“That’s quite romantic, actually,” he concedes.

“Yes, very,” Sherlock dismisses. “Of course, he was caught and sentenced to death rather quickly, so it all goes downhill from there, I’m afraid. The records are a little blurry, but history seems to suggest that he fell in love with the jailer’s daughter during his stint of imprisonment.”

“Cute. Did they have a happy ending?”

Sherlock bristles. “Of course not, John, it was a Roman Empire. St. Valentine was beheaded on February the fourteenth, this exact date in history.”

John rolls his eyes and exhales slowly. “Right, of course he was brutally murdered. How utterly romantic of you to remind me of ancient beheadings on Valentine’s Day.” He rethinks this, frowning. “Scratch that, it’s actually very fitting of our entire relationship.” 

“Yes, I thought so too,” Sherlock agrees happily, failing to see why this should be problematic. “Anyway, it was a dreadfully boring lesson in history. In fact, the only interesting thing I gathered from the entire process was that St. Valentine was the patron saint of beekeepers.” Sherlock brightens a little at this, squeezing John’s hand gently in excitement. “ _Bees_ , John.”

“Yes alright, alright. So to sum up… Roman Empire, a proper beheading, and the patron saint of beekeepers.” John chuckles. “Valentine’s Day with you is going entirely as I expected it might, but I still fail to see how your little history lesson connects to the small Valentine’s Day display on our kitchen table.”

Sherlock nods, reminded of his original point. “Well, it’s like I said; the holiday, however commercialized it has become, seems to be centred around reminding your significant other that they are cherished and important. This traditionally seems to be achieved through the exchanging of gifts, the value of which is roughly equivalent to the extent of your affection towards that person.”

John cannot hide that he is touched. “Okay.” He gestures to the display before them. “So all of these items are meant to symbolize how much you adore me. That’s… quite sweet, actually, though highly unnecessary.”

“No.” Sherlock's lips curve into a frown, his forehead creasing slightly. “The extent of what I feel for you would be impossible to represent in material items, John. I began to realize by my second trip to Tesco that our flat would become crowded rather quickly if I kept trying to place a monetary value on what I feel for you. Besides, there aren’t enough chocolates and flowers in all of London and even if there were, our flat would turn into a joint botany and confectionary museum within an hour.”

And there it is again; John feels his knees weaken and heat pool in his belly at Sherlock’s words, but Sherlock has tossed the words out as though they are nothing. He completely blows John out of the water with his affections, and yet he speaks as though he were stating any other fact, as though he was simply discussing the fact that it may rain later today. 

“ _Sherlock,_ ” John breathes quietly, reaching out and tracing his fingers along the detective’s jawline. Sherlock falls quiet, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands come up to close over both of John’s against his cheeks. He holds them both still for a moment, neither of them saying a word. Hell, John is not sure if either of them even take a breath in that moment. 

John cannot believe the depth of what he feels for the brilliant, beautiful man standing before him. Finally, he shakes his head, recognizing he is at a loss.

“I can’t believe you sometimes, you know that? Just when I think I’ve got you pegged, you well and truly outdo yourself, every single time.” 

Sherlock’s eyes open again and lock against the soldier's, searching, understanding. His fingers tighten over John’s, clasping their hands together and drawing their joined fingers down to their sides. He squeezes both of John’s hands gently, conveying more in a simple gesture than he could in a hundred thousand well-chosen words.

“I love you,” John murmurs in disbelief. “God, how I love you.” 

“And I love you,” Sherlock returns simply, and there it is again; the absolute finality of his words that brook no argument. The conviction behind them is so deeply ingrained and solid that John knows Sherlock believes in this simple fact just as deeply as he believes in any body of science or criminology. 

All at once, it is too much for John to comprehend, too much to bear in one moment. 

Clearing his throat, he gestures back to the kitchen table. “You were about to tell me about all of this?” he prompts, praying that Sherlock will take the bait and shift gears. He will not allow crying this early on in the evening, he simply will not let it happen. 

“Right.” John is relieved to hear that Sherlock, too, seems shaken by the moment; he can hear it in the faint quiver of his voice, the trembling of his fingers against John’s wrists. 

Sherlock pulls reluctantly away from John and walks around the table, clasping his hands together in front of him. He gestures first towards the flowers. 

“I purchased three separate bouquets of flowers. I allowed myself the cliché of indulging in roses; apparently they are stereotypical to Valentine’s Day. I could not decide whether they would be cheesy or necessary, so I decided to err on the side of caution. But the lilies were quite beautiful and the daisies reminded me of your eyes somehow, though I’m still at a loss for why. There were other bouquets I had my eye on, though I deduced that the florist had wrongfully assumed I was an adulterer set on buying flowers for a multitude of partners, and so… three bouquets.” 

John keeps his mouth shut, still not trusting himself to speak and not tear up like a bloody idiot. Instead, he gives a firm nod, hands held together tightly behind his back. He gestures for Sherlock to continue.

“Your favourite wine was an obvious choice, as was the takeout from Angelos that I picked up about an hour ago. It just needs to be reheated. And the candle, the candle is also obvious.” 

On a roll now, Sherlock rushes on. “The giant bear won me some interesting looks on the tube. He is obnoxiously soft and large, and he will absolutely not be kept in our room. Mrs. Hudson might find him a suitable companion, if you aren’t terribly attached to him.” 

Without waiting for a response on this particular statement, Sherlock takes another step along the length of the table, gesturing to the boxes upon boxes of chocolate and sweets. 

“The candy and chocolates are self explanatory, but I beg you not to indulge in them all at once. I rather like your current chances of not developing diabetes, and I really need you in top shape to keep up with me on cases.” Sherlock hesitates, the corner of his mouth quirking up a little. “If I may ask a small favour of you, I’d like you to also keep me from overindulging in the sweets. I have a soft spot for caramels; it comes from a lifetime of snatching up chocolates before Mycroft could gobble them all down.” 

John laughs out loud at this, unable to help himself, and it relieves some of the emotion that had pent up between them, allowing them to settle back into a comfort zone, of sorts. 

“Noted,” John agrees, before gesturing towards the two envelopes that are nestled snugly between two boxes of chocolates. “What are those, then?” 

Sherlock hesitates ever so slightly at this, picking up the nearest envelope and running his fingers along the bottom edge. “Ah, yes. Well, I didn’t want to play exactly by the stereotypes, you know?” 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the envelope while he speaks, his eyebrows knitted together, a sign that is of some concern to John. Sherlock usually only employs these habits when he is nervous, and only rarely. Slowly, he reaches across the distance between them, presenting the envelope to John as an offering. 

John takes it willingly, his fingers already working the flap open as Sherlock rushes on. “The other envelope contains just a standard, overpriced greeting card,” he dismisses. “There’s a cute hedgehog on the front, it’s actually quite adorable. Overpriced, but adorable."

John grins. “Spoiler alert,” he teases, hoping to calm Sherlock down slightly. What could be in this envelope that would cause Sherlock such hesitation, such anxiety? Sherlock is usually so self-assured, confident in his deductions of others. Is he really so unsure of how John will react to this particular gift? As if he hadn’t already smashed Valentine's Day out of the park altogether. 

Sherlock rushes on. “All of those websites, they suggested writing a letter to your significant other on Valentine's Day, telling them how you feel.” He bites his lip nervously. “I tried to do that, John, I really did, but the words came out all wrong. There… there weren’t enough words in the English language, or maybe I just couldn’t pinpoint them, but none of it expressed what I wanted to say to you, and none of it came close to conveying how I feel. It was a proper mess, and you deserved better than that.” 

As Sherlock speaks, John’s fingers are working to unfold several sheets of folded paper- the contents of the envelope. His breath hitches in his throat when his gaze rakes over line upon line of sheet music- for the violin, he is certain. John himself can make no sense of the notes- he has never been an adept musician- but in that moment, the rise and fall of notation on paper is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his life, and understanding and love transcend spoken language as he gazes upon this gift, the best thing he has ever received. He cannot understand a single note scrawled on the paper before him, and yet he understands unequivocally that it is the most beautiful and heartbreaking message to ever be conveyed, in any language.

He looks up at the detective with wide eyes, truly struck silent by this gesture. 

“It is a piece I composed myself,” Sherlock explains shyly. “I will play it for you after dinner. It is us. It is everything that I feel for you, everything that I have felt for you since the day we met, translated into the language I know how to best convey myself.” The corner of his mouth quirks into a shy smile that takes years off his features. 

“I’m told that communicating by spoken word isn’t my best medium.” 

John lets out a deep breath he had not been aware of holding, and finds that he is trembling. “You’re, um, you’re doing pretty spectacularly on that front tonight, if I’m being honest. In fact, you may win an award for being the quickest bloke in London to smooth-talk your way into bed this evening.” 

Sherlock brightens and some of the tension dissolves in his amusement. “Excellent, so sex is already on the table, then. My work here is done.” 

John rolls his eyes. He lays the sheet music and opened envelope down on the table behind them. He places his hands on Sherlock’s waist, delicate.

“Let’s be honest,” he says, his voice taking on a huskier quality. “Sex was never off the table, Sherlock. When is it ever, with us?” 

Sherlock chuckles at this, drawing an arm around John’s waist and drawing them chest to chest. They simply hold one another for a long moment; the silence drags on, but it is not uncomfortable in the slightest. On the contrary, it is the most comfortable feeling in the world, the feeling of being able to just exist securely in someone’s presence with no expectations, no need for communication. 

Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence, an amusing memory occurring to him. 

“The lady at at Tesco seemed to think the recipient of my affections must be quite spoiled,” he points out, his voice bright with amusement and pride.

John tucked his head beneath Sherlock’s chin, burying his face against his neck and simply breathing him in. “Well, she wasn’t wrong,” he murmured. “I suppose I am rather spoiled. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock’s chin rests on the top of John’s head. “My actions are simply reflective of the extent of my feelings towards you, and therefore are nothing less than you deserve.”

John draws back a little, just enough to look up into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, you know you didn’t have to do all of this, right?” John reaches up with one hand, smoothing Sherlock’s hair away from his forehead tenderly, his fingers lingering against his temple. 

“Don’t get me wrong, you really outdid yourself on this one, love. But I would be perfectly content having a nice dinner together, maybe take a walk in the park, and then spend the rest of our evening in the bedroom.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, intrigued, and John cups his hand against the detective’s cheek gently, his gaze piercing against Sherlock’s. He is grateful- beyond grateful, really- but he needs Sherlock to understand that the only important thing about Valentine's Day is who he spends it with, not what they do or what gifts they choose to give one another.

“All of this, it is a beautiful touch and you’ve… trust me, you have given me the most amazing and memorable Valentine's Day I’ve ever experienced.” He hesitates, then corrects himself. “Hell, probably the most memorable Valentine's Day anyone in _London_ has ever experienced. But don’t think for one second that you need to go overboard with some hugely romantic gesture every year, okay? I promise you, it’s not necessary. Simply being with you is enough for me, okay?”

Sherlock nods his head, laying his hand against where John’s fingers rest on his cheek. “I understand,” he confirms. “Hugely romantic gestures are appreciated, but not an annual requirement.”

John nods, pleased. “Fantastic. Now, please keep that mantra in mind as I give you your present, alright?” 

And with that, John reaches into his coat pocket and closes his fingers around the small velvet box he has been stowing there since this morning. He draws in a deep breath in an attempt to steel his nerves, the ones that had been temporarily tamped down by Sherlock’s absolutely heartbreaking show of affection.

But as he prepares himself to ask the most important question of his life, John suddenly finds he is far more confident about the ring he is about to offer up to Sherlock. After all, Sherlock had said himself that a traditional Valentine's Day gift should be equivalent to the extent of your affection towards that person. 

And John can think of no better way to represent the depth and permanency of his love for Sherlock than through the promise of a lifetime of forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
